
Class VIR S^'12 

Book *4o C-^^ 

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COFJOUGUT DEPOSrr. 



Echoes of 
Robert Louis Stevenson 









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Echoes 

of 

Robert Louis 
Stevenson 

. By 
J. Christian Bay 



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Chicago 

Walter M. Hill 

1920 



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Copyrighted IQ20 by 
J. Christian Bay 



Printed at the Torch Press 
Cedar Rapids, Iowa 



AL'G -2 1320 
g>';iAo71845 



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To 

Young Ewing Allison 
with deep gratitude 

— The Author 



This Edition 

is limited to 

Fifteeri Copies on Japan Paper, 

ten of these being for sale, 

and 

Five Hundred Copies on 

ordinary paper 



The title-page and the vignettes were 
done by Axel T. Bay. Grateful acknowl- 
edgements for favors extended to the writer 
are due Charles G, Blanden and Thomas 
Y, Crow el I ^ Company. 



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IT IS hardly an exaggeration to 
say that thousands of persons, 
young and old, would gladly walk 
across our continent if their re- 
ward were to hear Robert Louis 
Stevenson's living voice. It is 
fairly possible to imagine how he 
looked, and this possibility re- 
mains open to future generations. 
But speech is music of the heart 
and soul. No one dies in personal 
memory as long as there is even 
one person left behind whose 
memory retains the sound of the 
voice, — an experience which, un- 
fortunately, is incommunicable. 
But we of the outer circle of 
friends cannot have this memory. 

Paige 7 



Once only did one of the inner 
circle communicate a remem- 
brance of Stevenson's voice. Mrs. 
Jenkin, late on a winter afternoon 
in 1868, paid her first visit to 17 
HeriotRow and there found Mrs. 
Stevenson sitting by the firelight, 
apparently alone. They began to 
talk, when suddenly, from out of 
a dark corner of the room, came a 
voice, peculiar, vibrating; a boy's 
voice, she thought it at first. '^I 
forgot," remarked Mrs. Steven- 
son, ^'that my son was in the room. 
Let me introduce him to you." 
So Robert Louis, or Lewis, as he 
was called at home, arose and 
bowed in the dusk. And the voice 
went on, while Mrs. Jenkin list- 
ened in perplexity and amaze- 
ment. Afterward, the young man 
accompanied the visitor to the 
front door. It is not impossible 
that Leary, the lamplighter, at 
that moment happened trotting 

Page 8 



past "with ladder and with light;" 
nor is it beyond conjecture that 
Mrs. Jenkin, as she walked into 
the street, paused to take a good 
look at her new and surprising 
acquaintance. She saw a boy in 
the first flush of youth, slender, 
almost delicate. His long, soft 
hair framed a high, narrow fore- 
head. He looked at her with a 
smile which lighted up his deep 
brown eyes with unforgettable 
geniality. She did not dwell upon 
these photographic characteristics 
as her memory, years after, treas- 
ured the incident. Instead, she 
recalled another, much more sig- 
nificant, impression, and it took 
the form of a most happy simile: 
young Stevenson ''talked as 
Charles Lamb wrote/* 

No analysis of this reminis- 
cence is necessary. Knowing what 
we do about Lamb, the esthetic 
fitness of the simile cannot be 

Page 9 



doubted. It was a discovery then, 
as it is to anybody hearing it now 
for the first time. Even a stray 
word from Lamb bears witness to 
the crystalline clearness of his 
mind and thought. No wonder 
that the one poet who, in his 
youth, spoke as Lamb wrote, in 
time was quite naturally hailed as 
the clearest voice in Britain's 
chorus! 

This was the voice of a human- 
ist. 

Is a reference to Erasmus far- 
fetched, when we consider Stev- 
enson's characteristics in life and 
literature? 

A contemporary has given Eras- 
mus credit for a fine voice, an ex- 
quisite language, a festive pres- 
ence — the same qualities and at- 
tainments again and again claimed 
for Stevenson by those who knew 
him best. 
Page 10 



Further: Are not Stevenson's 
utterances in their t3^pical forms 
obviously comparable to Latin 
and French — just in the same way 
in which the Latin of Erasmus 
bears an obvious resemblance to 
elegant English? It seems that 
one can hear almost without an 
effort the sound of much of Stev- 
enson's writing, as if language 
reached one in a wordless way, 
just like music or the scent of 
flowers. Similarly, anybody read- 
ing the letters of Erasmus {Opera 
omnia, Tom. Ill, pars 1-2) must 
be struck by the fact that they 
flow into one's consciousness al- 
most without translation. 

"Latine scribere," says Steven- 
son in 1874, *^mihi nunc jucundum 
est;" not, certainly, for the reason 
that he had studied the writings of 
the great humanist, or even dipped 
deeply into the classics, but be- 
cause he had grown out of the 

Page 11 



acquired forms of utterance and 
was casting about for new forms. 
At that time, also, he had grown 
out of the formal mysticism domi- 
nating his childhood and youth, 
and was discovering a new world 
within himself and without. Born 
of a historic family, reared among 
traditions, he found it necessary to 
detach himself from history, to 
liberate himself from tradition, in 
order that his spirit might be free 
to take up its own task. In the 
mysterious nature of things, his- 
tory and tradition took their place 
in his life once more, as his ''task 
of happiness" evolved. 

This very phrase, ''my high task 
of happiness," clearly is a human- 
istic form. There never was ut- 
tered a higher ideal for a poet. 
And how was it to be attained? By 
the will "to contend for the shade 
of a word." 

Erasmus himself could not have 

Page 12 



stated his own ideal more appeal- 
ingly clearly. 

^'A lad," says Stevenson in 1881, 
'^for some liking to the jingle of 
words, betakes himself to letters 
for his life." A dozen years later, 
after having considered all that 
came of it, he sums up the situa- 
tion in a poem to his father, the 
builder of lighthouses: 

And bright on the lone isle, the 
foundered reef, 

The long resounding foreland, 
Pharos stands; 
while the son, in his way 

. . .must arise, O Father, and to 
port 

Some lost, complaining seaman 
pilot home. 

It is humanistic to assert, as 
Stevenson does, that our judg- 
ments are based first upon the 
original preferences of our soul, 
and that the utterance of them in- 
volves a moral duty. "To conceal 

Page IS 



a sentiment, if you hold it, is to 
take a liberty with truth." 

As a matter of fact, it would be 
a possible feat to translate the 
whole of Stevenson's essay, The 
Morality of the Profession of Let- 
ters, and pass off much of the work 
as a newly discovered epistle by 
Erasmus, — or, if the reader pre- 
fer, byJohnColet. — Stevenson, on 
the other hand, might be credited 
with more than one of those mar- 
velous letters which Colet inspired 
Erasmus to write: witness Epist. 
219, where Erasmus expresses his 
deep gratitude to Colet for setting 
an example in style: ". . .this mild, 
muffled, unaffected style, spring- 
ing forth, like a clear fountain, 
from the richest affection, even, 
always the same, open and direct, 
with modesty .... You say what 
you will ; you will what you say." 

Finally, the reservation made by 
Erasmus that letters {litterae) did 

Page 14 



not imply enlightenment, but true 
enlightenment calls for that quali- 
ty of letters which are called 
politiores, might have been pro- 
nounced by Stevenson himself. 
The lamps of both men burned 
with a pure, white light; the wicks 
being trimmed with the utmost 
precision. Yet, neither was a 
scholar. Neither would have 
qualified for a professorship in the 
^^humanities," but both were born 
to a chair in humaniora. 

There is so much in Stevenson's 
writings suggestive of his living 
speech and even his manner, the 
gleam in his eye, the motions of 
his hands, that he who loves the 
writer may easily forget being a 
stranger to the man. The personal 
appeal in many of Stevenson's 
writings is direct and immediate; 
and once it winds its way into a 
receptive mind, the sympathy is 
complete, there is no parting, and 

Page IS 



the voice, though quieted now in 
death, resounds in the very depths 
of one's soul. 

This sympathetic understanding 
is more than the common admira- 
tion of a man who opens his mind 
freely and tells his story well. It 
is friendship. It is giving and tak- 
ing. It is sustained confidence, 
and memory, daily meditation, and 
continued remembrance; so that 
He is not dead, this friend — not 

dead, 
But in the path we mortals tread, 
Got some few, trifling steps ahead 

And nearer to the end. 
So that you, too, once past the bend, 
Shall meet again, as face to face, 

this friend, 
You fancy dead. 
Meanwhile, the forward traveler 
— loiters with a backward smile 

Till you can overtake. 
And strains his eye, to search his 

wake, 
Page 16 



Or, whistling, as he sees you 
through the brake. 

Waits on a stile. 

This picture is significant of one 
of the deepest and most valuable 
relations between man and man, — 
it is this ^'backward smile" which 
keeps the hearts of Stevenson's 
friends warm and free, the flowers 
fresh behind the windows of their 
homes. All know how much he 
sufifered bodily and mentally. All 
feel for his sufferings the heart- 
ache unmixed with commonplace 
pity, which is a true soldier's 
source of strength, — just as he, 
himself, expressed it in 1881, apro- 
pos of an essay on Keats: '4t is a 
brave and sad little story." 

We recall and recollect with our 
minds and intellects, but we re- 
member with our hearts. It seems 
that each one of us has a personal 
share in that ''high task of happi- 
ness" which is at once the example 

Page 17 



and the fulfilment of William 
Morris's unforgettable lines: 
Shall wt wake one morn of Spring, 
Glad at heart of everything, 
Yet pensive with the thought of 

eve? 
and the man who inspires this ef- 
fort — that man never becomes a 
distant figure, a mere successful 
author, a notable person; he takes 
his place in the seat beside our 
door, nor do we claim for ourselves 
any privacy in which he is super- 
fluous. — 

There is a reason to believe, 
then, that such of us as owe to 
Stevenson a desire to make the 
most of joy and sympathy would 
not, after all, be greatly surprised 
one way or the other by hearing 
his voice. We probably should not 
be much startled if, hidden in the 
dusk of a winter's twilight by our 
fireside, he should speak all at 

Page 18 



once, perhaps in a strain like this: 
^'I take pleasure in the battle, 
thank God ; and even a defeat has 
its honourable side.'^ 

Or, expanding the remark: 
''And this one thing I proclaim, 
that the mere act of living is the 
healthiest exercise, and gives the 
greatest strength that a man v^ants. 
I have bitter moments, I suppose, 
like my neighbors, but the tenor of 
my life is easy to me." 

Here, as in the following pages, 
we quote mainly from the contents 
of unpublished letters dated be- 
tween 1873 ^^ ^888, the years of 
stress, strain, and hard struggle. 
And thus we awake from our 
dream about the living speech to 
face the actual presence of that 
which approaches more closely to 
speech than any other form of ut- 
terance — autographic communica- 
tion. 

Personal letters forever have 

Page 19 



been treasured among the most sig- 
nificant relics of life. Their im- 
mediate origin charms even in 
cases where no personal relation 
exists. Anybody can appreciate 
the authentic touch in a letter or 
even a detached autograph. Some 
such pieces are treasured because 
of their artistic touch or their per- 
sonal appeal of quaintness and 
beauty, as in the case of Eugene 
Field or James Whitcomb Riley, 
and become the spoils of collectors. 
Generally speaking, it is a noble 
aspiration to own a good auto- 
graph. In Stevenson's letters we 
look in vain for any dainty touches 
of pictorial or calligraphic art ex- 
emplified by Thackeray, Morris, 
or Field. Robert Louis Stevenson 
appeals by his tone, by the color of 
his words, his picturesque lan- 
guage, the intimacy of his penetra- 
tion, the child-like directness of his 
confidence. No letter lacking in 

Page 20 



one or more of these qualities ever 
was penned by him. Collectors 
know it and very naturally have 
cornered the market and made his 
A. L. S. as rare and costly as med- 
ieval script on immortal vellum, 
but students of language and liter- 
ature return to them ever and 
again, because they express a form 
of life full of uplift, courage, high 
inspiration, and glorious success. 
And throughout it all, one feels on 
the safe side: Here is a man who 
never turns a trick on you. While 
distinctly on the forum, he is as 
innocent of its deceit and jugglery 
as a child is of Greek. 

Young E. Allison deserves high 
praise for pointing out that Steven- 
son is wholly innocent of style. 
''Water," says Mr. Allison, ''does 
not pool itself and laboriously work 
out the discovery that it can run 
down hill. It simply runs merrily 

Page 21 



along." Stevenson's art is to tell a 
story passing well and to convince 
the reader of its validity. With 
this assertion belongs another — 
probably quite obvious to us all — 
namely, that Stevenson first con- 
vinces himself : his work was a mat- 
ter of conscience. 

In 1875, at the age of twenty- 
five, he writes to Colvin, apropos 
of his paper on Poe: 

"I say I am a damned bad writer. 
O God, you should see my article 
on Poe as a poet, just sent oflf — 
plenty to say (and true, I think), 
but / can't write, God bless you, I 
can't write." 

Later in the same year he finds 
himself in the grasp of a long story, 
which ''tends more and more to die 
away into continued rhapsody." 
But "it's fun to do, from this very 
reason ; because it's such fun just to 
give way, and let your pen go ofY 
with you into the uttermost parts 

Page 22 



of the earth and the mountains of 
the moon." 

No better example of his run- 
ning off into free imagery can be 
found, than in a letter dated at 
Alois, France, in 1878, on a dreamy 
day: 

". . .the rain is falling far afield, 
it wets a tramp on the long high- 
ways, it wets the deck of a tremb- 
ling ship at sea. " What a compre- 
hensive vision, what a wide range 
of sympathy! Immediately after- 
wards he turns to himself: 

"God, who made me such as I 
am, who put me in this tumultuous 
and complicated scene, and who 
day by day, in fortune or calamity, 
leads me through a variety of deeds 
to the complete possession of my 
own soul and body, help me, O 
God, and spare me, that I may be 
neither broken in body nor soured 
in mind, but issue from these tribu- 
lations cheerful, serviceable, and 

Page 23 



unambitious, as befits a human man 
among men." 

It is evident here that he has dis- 
covered how far more difficult it is 
to live from day to day in full pos- 
session of tranquillity and contin- 
ued purpose, than to rise to mo- 
mentary inspiration at intervals. 

Already atSwanston, in 1874, he 
had drawn this conclusion: "There 
is nothing worth much in the 
world but work, after all," an 
assertion which sounds common- 
place enough, but soon after is 
complemented with the feeling of 
freedom expressed as follows: 

"I have bitter moments, I sup- 
pose, like my neighbors, but the 
tenor of my life is easy to me. I 
know it now, and I know what I 
ought to do for the most part, and 
that is the important knowledge." 

In 1879, he words a feeling fa- 
miliar to all men struggling with 
their future, — the occasional use- 

Page 24 



fulness of silence to souls naturally 
communicative, the old and time- 
honored Cistercian remedy against 
a scattering of energies : 

*^ . .1 like solitude and silence; 
to have been a whole day, and not 
said twenty words, refreshes me 

The body is tired, and so is 

the mind. And I take my rest in 
silence. Above all, I must be silent 
a great deal more than I used, 
about what really concerns me. I 
can talk of books and the weather, 
and cut capers in words with the 
indifferent, better than talk straight 
out of my heart, as I used to do. 
Perhaps I have more in my heart; 
perhaps I have been spoilt by a 
very perfect relation; and my heart, 
having been coddled in a home, 
has grown delicate and bashful; 
... .At least, so it is. And I do 
not want you to think it cold or 
judge my friendships by my confi- 
dence. If the oyster shuts up, 

Page 25 



never fear, it is because there's still 
an oyster." (1879.) 

Of his work, Stevenson enter- 
tained no foolish superstition. But 
he vindicates himself. Writing to 
Colvin, in the summer of 1877, he 
announces an article to appear in 
Temple Bar, ^4n which, for the 
first time to my knowledge, you 
will meet the real Villon. It is, 
Mr. Colvin, sir, a remarkable pro- 
duction, not in the way of style, 
but in the way of taking a man in 
the fact. ..." The letter contin- 
ues: ^'And look here, while I was 
full of Villon, I wrote a little story, 
10 or 12 pages, about him." This 
refers to nothing less than A Lodg- 
ing for the Night; and he asks a 
suggestion of where to send it, ^'for 

I want money sorely Can you 

suggest any place for me to hide 
this little bauble in? It ain't so — 
good; but I daresay it may pass in 

Page 26 



the ten thousand; or at least bits 
of it." 

It seems often, as one reads Stev- 
enson's letters, that he had thrown 
into them thoughts and ideas which 
were crowded out, so to speak, of 
his more formal works, — not with 
an eye to publication, but to liber- 
ate his mind and set free his en- 
ergy. Thus, the following whim- 
sical and surprising declaration 
reached Colvin from Bourne- 
mouth: ^^Everything is true; only 
the opposite is true too; you must 
believe both equally or be damned. 
This is where you and Morrison 
fail ; you cannot see the huge truths 
in the lie on the other side; you 
only see your own side; this is 
what made Torquemada, Robes- 
pierre, and — I beg your pardon — 
the low church clergyman." 

This letter is signed in quadru- 
plicate, as follows: R. L. Mc- 

Page 27 



Guckin. Andrew Croslynofif. Ju- 
lius Creason. Archbishop Sharpe. 

Almost in the same hour he tires 
of it all and exclaims : '^ . . . I want 
— I want — I want a holiday; I 
want to be happy; I want the 
moon, or the sun, or something. I 
want .... a big forest; and fine 
breathing, sweating, sunny walks; 
and the trees all crying aloud in 
a summer's wind; and a camp un- 
der the stars. Much of which I 
could have for the taking, and 
mustn't take. Alas! Alas poor 
Arethusa, poor Inland Voyage! 
Poor R. L. S., so much respected 
in the society of the literati!. . . ." 

Stevenson's sense of sonorous 
and exalted phrasing developed 
with his knowledge of Latin, and 
inspired the following gorgeous 
note written in Mentone, January, 

1874: 

^^Latine scribere mihi nunc ju- 
cundum est; si bene, laudes deo 
Page 28 



soli reddendae; verum, ut timeo, si 
male, male sine ullo decenti scri- 
bam pudori [pudore]. Muscovi- 
tas semper amabiles inveni, semper 
ingeniosas amoenasque foeminas. 
Stopconus simplicissimus est et, ut 
it a die am, brebisissimus, Currit 
per arduos [ardua], per gramina, 
et tenuem voculam ad voces mon- 
tium marisque semper jungit. 
Heri, in certis tenebrarum pene- 
traliis [penetralibus], remoto in 
cubiculo suo, multum fertur fie- 
visse, quia Principessa flores eum 
iterum donaturum more Junonis 
vetuit. [See Appendix III.] 

^^Fere degambolatus sum — O 
Lord that's good, that's a triumph, 
it's better than the English; there 
is no language like latin after all — 
fere degambolatus sum; spero tan- 
dem; et me here I e jam iterum tri- 
umpho. Pictor amabilis; puer 
quoque bonus; tener, facilis, ab 

Page 29 



omni parte (nescio quomodo) mihi 
ridiculus, Stopconus, ie absentee 
has been asking my advice about 
his pictures and has taken it and 
thinks it good; which pleases me 
as I thought I wanted the organ of 
pictures altogether." 

Amidst this frolic of phrase and 
sound we are reminded of the se- 
riousness of things, as he goes on: 

"I have nearly finished a com- 
plete draught of Ordered South, 
but shall wait your arrival before 
I transcribe it, lest perhaps it 
should be unfit for human food." 

It proved a highly acceptable 
bauble. 

It is not easy to over-estimate 
Sir Sidney Colvin's share in Stev- 
enson's literary success. In 1875 — 
they first met in 1873 — he declares: 
''I suppose I shall take all your 
damned corrections;" and in an- 
other letter, speaking of his essay 
on Fontainebleau, expresses him- 

Page 30 



self "glad to get my Mss. back, 
cum pencillationibus.^'' 

Nine years later, in a letter ad- 
dressed to his cousin Robert, we 
find Stevenson voicing a fully con- 
scious philosophy of art. Even in 
its mere outline, it is well worth 
knowing: 

"In my art, studies can be made 
to go down by one quality, facture: 
a person like Gautier — dam"* bad 
art — factures to such a point that 
people take simple unadulterated 
strings of facts from him. But the 
right way is to get the sentiment 
first and let the sentiment assimi- 
late facts by natural congruity. . . . 
The tune of my article for Henley 
is this, that realism, intent upon 
continual vivid truth to nature, 
forces these facts as strongly as the 
other, naturally selected and more 
constructive ( bildende ) facts ; 
while idealism, intent on the main 

Page 31 



concept, takes instead languid con- 
ventions to fill up the field. 

"In lyric poetry, where litera- 
ture leans towards music, and 
ceases to be a representative art, an 
artist remains content with one or 
two constructive facts that fired his 
imagination. Whistler, coolly, for- 
getting that painting must be a 
representative art, being bound in 
space, tries to get the public to take 
the like from him. They will not. 
The persons who "look for fidel- 
ity" are not to be catered for; but 
the call of your art to be represen- 
tative must never be forgotten. 
'Tis true, when you step aside to a 
pure convention, like drawing, 
three strokes suffice, and satisfy 
plenarily the most captious. But 
I do not think we yet understand 
the living vigour of a frank con- 
vention, boldly forced. Decorative 
art has thus liberties denied to the 
representative; and the coolness of 

Page 32 



Whistler is that he takes the liber- 
ties without performing the duties 
of the decorator. If you invent a 
sublime design, paint it a la Whist- 
ler, and you will be a deity; but to 
paint nothings and diurnal facts in 
this manner is a simple calmness. 
"Literature taking place in time 
and not in space, shares some of the 
life of music, while as representa- 
tive art, it shares some of that of 
painting. Now by the mere filling 
in of the time, the sound sequences 
and breaks, a study of a very tame 
kind, quo ad representation, may 
be ^endued with artistic merit;' 
that is the musical affair. Again 
as I said, by mere vivacity and va- 
riety of facture, the public may be 
cheated into admiration; Manet's 
cock and lady that I wanted to buy, 
is the game; or etching as a paral- 
lel for the best sort In my 

art, of course, there is one sum- 
mity: Shakespeare, the only realist 

Page 33 



who ever succeeded! that is who 
reached the clear design and force 
of the ideal, and yet carried along 
with him the bulk and lineament, 
colour, and brute imprint, of actual 
detail. And of course, the result is 
simply staggering. It doesn't seem 
like art; all is moved into clearer 
space and puts on beauty; the ugly 
becomes the terrible, the maudlin 
rises into the pathetic; and every 
fact, placed where it belongs, shines 
many-coloured like a gem; the rest 
of us have to strip if we are to 
climb, to refuse not only facts but 
sentiments, truncate, blur and de- 
form, make dirt upon the palette; 
and, when time comes to fight, 
babble an excuse and give a subter- 
fuge. Well, now, look at this con- 
queror in his early and unsure 
works where we can trace the 
working of his hand; look, for in- 
stance, at the rotten, swollen, red- 
cheeked rant of Richard III — he 

Page 34 



is pursuing the ideal at full gallop! 
Yet by this path he came out alone 
above all competitors upon the al- 
pine top of realism. Again, how 
long were you before you got this 
freshness and quality of truth into 
your studies? Yet you expect, with 
a mere turn of the body, to trans- 
pose it into the foreign and far more 
difficult province of the studio 
picture. 'Tis all time and style. 
We are both idealists born out of 
season, and infected with the con- 
temporary and inconsistent taste." 

Some of these ideas were elabo- 
rated by Stevenson in his essay on 
the elements of style in literature. 
There is one element of writing 
which is mentioned with scant re- 
spect and then dropped with a 
warning: the conscious and un- 
conscious artifices which may at- 
tract the uncritical, and even serve 
for popularity. Stevenson consid- 

Page 35 



ers these elements unworthy of the 
serious artist, but points out that 
they may be lifted into a higher 
sphere and serve artistic ends. 
These artifices indeed are unrecog- 
nized in rhetoric, and thanks are 
due to Stevenson for calling atten- 
tion to them, not as individual fac- 
tors of work, but — when they are 
rightly used — as indications of a 
delicacy of sense finer than we con- 
ceive, and as hints of ancient har- 
monies in nature. 

Whether one or the other; 
whether indicative of a delicacy of 
sense or a revival of ancient har- 
monies in nature: there are certain 
unconscious artifices about Steven- 
son's work, which count as much as 
the story itself, and at least more 
than the choice of words, the 
rhythm of the phrase, or anything 
else discoverable by the literary 
anatomist. One is brevity, or the 
foreshortening of phrases and peri- 
Page 36 



ods susceptible to considerable pa- 
laver. In the Inland Voyage, be- 
fore the end of the first, shortened, 
page, both canoes are landed in 
Antwerp, loaded, manned by the 
two travelers, and away out in the 
middle of the Scheldt. It requires 
precisely twelve lines of printed 
text to anticipate the departure 
from England, to cover the arrival 
in Belgium, to stow away pro- 
visions, to look around, to talk over 
things, to be done with the launch- 
ing of the craft. — The Silverado 
Squatters shares in the same virtue : 
^^The scene of this little book is on 
a high mountain;" there you are, 
all ready for the story, as in a saga 
of ancient times, purged of all 
superfluous detail, foot-notes and 
other historical apparatus. 

Another unconscious quality in 
Stevenson's work is that his writing 
appeals to the ear more than to the 

Page 37 



eye. No imitation, no experiment- 
ing, no juggling, could produce the 
same result. Even his controvers- 
ial writings, such as the letter to 
Dr. Hyde, or the Footnote to His- 
tory, are entirely free from the 
hypnotism of advertising. The 
world is full of conscious and cun- 
ning appeals to the eye, and shrewd 
agitators see to it that the masses 
are whipped into line, and that 
goggles are provided for the un- 
convinced. Political propaganda 
through editorials, systematized 
paragraph writing, comic pages 
and slogans, fall amongst us day 
by day like dew on a sere meadow. 
Nobody seems to have any excuse 
for not knowing by heart the 
square root of the collective wis- 
dom. Yet, cunning drives on pub- 
lic opinion grow less and less effica- 
cious, because the average man 
consciously or unconsciously seeks 

Page 38 



enlightenment for his soul and not 
excitement for the hour. 

When it comes to real enlighten- 
ment, one of the smallest library 
buildings would accommodate the 
World's Library of Live Books 
without crowding. In a handful 
of exquisite stories and heart-grip- 
ping songs we have the romance of 
the Middle Ages unfolded before 
us; and no literary genius of this 
day can improve upon them any 
more than a modern composer can 
bring the Gregorian chants up to 
date. 

Stevenson unconsciously but 
readily fell in with the ancient 
harmony in human nature, as he 
acquired the art of expression. 
Will of the Mill is a direct descen- 
dant of the saga literature. 

— ''Year after year went away 
into nothing." 

— "Up in Will's valley only the 
winds and seasons made an epoch." 

Page 39 



— ^'Miss Marjory," he said, "I 
never knew any one I liked so well 
as you. I am mostly a cold, un- 
kindly sort of man; not from want 
of heart, but out of strangeness in 
my way of thinking; and people 
seem far away from me." 

Such writing hardly can occupy 
space on a book shelf alongside of 
artificial stories and produce of a 
commercial craft. It is a reversion 
to the old art of telling tales. Will 
is an ancient saga recounted by a 
clear-eyed man rising in his turn at 
the round table, by the King's re- 
quest, and opening his mind natur- 
ally, and freely. He speaks as the 
waters roll, as the winds blow 
through the tops of ancient trees, 
as the waves break upon an even 
shore. You could listen and listen 
until the world went under. 

In the fragment of an autobi- 
ography now in the Widener Col- 
lection Stevenson says of his fami- 

Page 40 



ly : ''We rose out of obscurity at a 
clap." Could any elaborate state- 
ment be more illumining? The 
almost curt statement abundantly 
suffices for all detail. 

It is incredible that serious cri- 
tics, students of organic forms in 
literature and life, will continue to 
confuse the conscious moulding of 
form with the historical and racial 
inspiration. Any school can dis- 
tribute information about style, 
but where is the teacher, or even 
the critic, who will guide a man, 
when he 77211st write, to the sources 
of a historical understanding of 
himself? 

Racial inspiration is the founda- 
tion of healthy dreams, as surely 
as historical inspiration is the be- 
ginning of all true education. 

The poet may sense neither, un- 
til he becomes aware that some- 
body listens to him; that his form 
of utterance makes an appeal; 

Page 41 



that, as one may put it, two blades 
of grass grow where but one grew 
before. He may not see this clear- 
ly, — he may be deceived by the 
false alarm of popularity. But 
time will show. Style is evanes- 
cent, a mere fluctuating value. 
True poetic work lies in the facul- 
ty of dreaming and translating to 
the untutored minds of the sens- 
ible. That, as Mr. Allison says, is 
not style; that is Genius. 

Continuing this thought, — is Ge- 
nius anything but historical inspi- 
ration crystallized in an individual 
as insight and reflected through 
his work as character \ 

The personal character of Ro- 
bert Louis Stevenson penetrates all 
his work as an ever-present, yet un- 
obtrusive exhortation to the reader. 
His essays and poems yield many 
a moral lesson in the direct, old- 
fashioned manner; his letters even 

Page 42 



more so. It seems that in very ear- 
ly life he decided firmly for cour- 
age, good will, friendliness, a posi- 
tive faith, honor with freedom, 
sympathy with respect. Even be- 
fore his literary method was fully 
developed his mind must have be- 
come attracted toward its natural 
meridian, for in all his published 
writings, in even his early corre- 
spondence, we cannot find a serious 
phrase not befitting the man who 
has elected the task of bearing a 
banner in the strife. How natural, 
if he had faltered more or less; if 
he had failed to show to the world 
a glorious morning face. 

The exhortation invariably fol- 
lows a positive motive or purpose. 
No better evidence of this is found 
except in his occasional addresses 
at solemn gatherings. Take his 
speech to the Samoan students at 
Malua, in 1890: ''Do not deceive 
yourselves; when Christ came, all 

Page 43 



was changed. The injunction was 
then laid upon us not to refrain 
from doing, but to do. At the last 
day he is to ask us not what sins we 
have avoided, but what righteous- 
ness we have done, what we have 
done for others, how we have 
helped good and hindered evil; 
what difference has it made to this 
world, and to our country and our 
family and our friends, that we 
have lived. The man who has 
been only pious and not useful will 
stand with a long face on that great 
day, when Christ puts to him his 
questions. 

''But this is not all that we must 
learn : we must beware everywhere 
of the letter that kills, seek every- 
where for the spirit that makes 
glad and strong." 

Here is an unpublished letter 
addressed to Mrs. Sitwell from 
Mentone, in March, 1874, two 
months before his essay, ''Ordered 

Page 44 



South," appeared in Macmillan's 
Magazine : 

[Mentone, March, 1874.] 
My dear friend, 

I am up again in an arm chair 
by the open window, the air 
very warm and soft and full of 
pleasant noise of streets. I have 
had a very violent cold; the 
chirruppy french-english doctor 
who attended me, said I might 
compliment myself on what I 
had, as I might just as well have 
had small pox or tiphoid fever 
or what you will; how, look 
here, with all this violetit cold, 
my chest remains unafifected: I 
am bronchial a bit and cough, 
and I have mucous membrane 
raw over the best part of me and 
my eyes are the laughablest de- 
formed loopholes you ever saw; 
and withal my lungs are all 
right. So you see that's good. I 
have not had a letter from home 
since I left Mentone. You know 
I was doing what they didn't 

Page 45 



want; but I put myself out of 
my way to make it less unplea- 
sant for them; and surely when 
one is nearly 24 years of age one 
should be allowed to do a bit of 
what one wants without their 
quarrelling with one. I would 
explain the whole thing to you 
but believe me I am too weary. 
Also, please show Colvin this 
letter and explain to him that 
whenever I can I will write to 
him; and that in the meantime, 
if it will not bind him, a note 
from him will be most agree- 
able. 

Nothing can be done to assist 
me: if I get permission, I shall 
probably go straight away to 
Germany without delay: by per- 
mission, I mean money. 

I cannot pretend that I have 
been happy this while back; but 
this morning I was relieved 
from a great part of my physi- 
cal sufferings and at the same 
time heard you speak more de- 
terminedly about your troubles. 
For God's sake carry these 

Page 46 



through; if you do, I'll promise 
to get better and do my work in 
spite of all. 

Monday. 

Last night, I set to work and 
Bob wrote to my dictation three 
or four pages of ^'V. Hugo's 
Romances'': it is d — d nonsense, 
but to have a brouillon is al- 
ready a great thing. If I had 
the health of a (simile wanting) 
I could still rake it together in 
time. 

Yesterday afternoon, I got 
quite a nice note from my father 
(after a fortnight's silence), 
with scarcely a word of anger or 
vexation or anything: I don't 
know what to make of that. 
But it does not matter; as I see 
clearly enough that I must give 
up the game for the present; 
this morning I am so ill that I 
can see nothing else for it than 
to crawl very cautiously home; 
the fact is the doctor would give 
me medicine, and I think that 
has just put the copestone on my 
weakness. I just simply per- 

Page 47 



spire without ceasing in big 
drops tliat 1 can hear falling in 
the heii, anil 1 liave a fine gener- 
ous tie that makes niy forehead 
into that sort of hideous damned- 
soul mask of bitterness and pain 
with whieh the public are al- 
ready ac(]uainted — I mean such 
of the public as know me. I am 
going to cut the doctor and sort 
myself; and the first warm day, 
1 shall ilv: a change of air is the 
only thing that will pull me 
through. Hut the North is such 
an error; cold 1 am unfit for, 1 
caiHiot come cold at all. My 
spirits are not at all bad, 1 thank 
you; but my temper is a little 
embittered, and I have employ- 
ed more french oaths this mor- 
ning, in order to try to awaken 
the placid imperturbable gar- 
con dc chambre to the fact that 
I was angrv, than I thought that 
1 had in me. 

It is curious how in some 
ways real pain is better than 
simple prostration, and uneasi- 
ness. T seem to have wakened 

Page 48 



u\) \f) nirj:\ tfji's tic, it h;is fjut inc 
oil tiic r'llcrt, J crjfDf: r^rj srniliu'^. 
It is so r;fjfl ; a rlay ;i;.y>, I fjirl nr>t 
care rJt all fr^r life and wouM 
just. ;r, '.',()n have died; f)ain 
cornf,',, ;jfjd 1 he;^ f)arrjf;rj, sir, 
you have rrj^ide a mistake, I 
Bfiall [)ull tf)rr>»u;4h irj spite arjfi 
be d d to you that is my sen- 
timent; J also want to make it a 
fact. 

Tell ('olvin tfiat tfjc instant 
my fiealth is anyway together 
a^ain, J sfiall prdcr to take to 
plays than to anytfiin^ else. I 
have already a ;(ood subject in 
(iibf)on; or ratfier, it was su;^- 
gcstefl lon;^ u/fTo by the corpus 
juris; anri has been recalled to 
me by Oibbrjn: a sort of domes- 
tic drama under the low em- 
pire; tax gatherers, slaves, chea- 
tcry, chicane, poverty; surjdenly 
drums and sunlight anri the pa- 
geantry of imperial violence: an 
admirable contrast, anri one just 
suiterl for the sta^e. So you sec 
I shall just be in the humr^ur to 



consider Diana of the Ephesi- 
ans. 

ever your faithful friend 
Robert Louis Stevenson. 

I shall be in London shortly, 
if I can; I shall seek rooms at 
the Paddington Hotel, where 
my people were, so that on the 
first opportunity I can come 
along and see you; if you can, I 
should like to see you alone, but 
of course, that must be how it 
can. I shall see you, and S.C. & 
show Clarke my carcase & lift 
coins from Portfolio, and then 
slowly north by easy stages. And 
O! if I could get into a sort of 
clean white bed in an airy room, 
and sleep for months, and be 
wakened in mid July by birds 
and the shadows of leaves in the 
room, and rise and dress myself 
and be quite well and strong 
and find that dozens of things 
had been dreams and were gone 
away for ever! 

R. L. S. 

Page SO 



One determining factor in 
Stevenson's resolute emigration 
from home in 1879 often has been 
overlooked: his desire of facing 
the world alone and to paddle his 
own canoe. While, as is common- 
ly asserted, a considerable motive 
of knight-errantry was the imme- 
diate impulse, the young man had 
scarcely landed in America than 
he felt in his bodily freedom the 
anticipation of a still more desir- 
able, and even necessary, social in- 
dependence. 

It was a terrible experience, 
more terrible even than the pub- 
lished letters reveal. But in all 
we know about it we see the devel- 
opment of mental traits, attitudes, 
and habits in the young man, 
which not only characterized him 
but afford an example to every- 
body for all time. The funda- 
mental trait is his readiness to un- 
derstand the persons with whom 

Page 51 



circumstances brought him into 
contact, to deal with them on the 
basis of their, rather than his own, 
qualifications, to be a friend to 
them. As time passed, this be- 
came more than a trait, it grew in- 
to a habit, a part of the man him- 
self. Stevenson, in his first letter 
to Colvin after his arrival in Cali- 
fornia, tells of having been be- 
friended by an old angora-goat 
rancher and his men. Immediately 
he constitutes himself teacher to 
the ranch children, the mother 
being away from home, sick. 
How sick he himself was, we 
learn from this little sigh at the 
end of the letter: ^'I should say to 
you — pray for me. I am obliged 
to lie down to write, for reasons 
best known to my heart.'' 

The Monterey circle of friends 
hardly would rival in social dis- 
tinction the humblest party of his 
admirers now. There was San- 

Page 52 



chez, the keeper of a saloon, and 
Bronson, the local editor; there 
was an Italian fisherman, and Au- 
gustin Dutra. Then, there was old 
Simoneau, in his little white- 
washed room. Each one was a 
friend, counting in Stevenson's 
world for some quality which he, 
Robert Louis Stevenson, discov- 
ered in his friend and developed, 
made much of, enlarged upon, ver- 
ified before the world. 

He made the difficulties which 
surrounded him, strictly his own. 
'^Nobody," he says, 'Svould write 
for advice at six weeks post," so he 
kept for a while his own counsel. 
^^My present trouble is one in 
which no one can help me; till my 
own common sense can see the 
right path.'' The upshot was an 
inner satisfaction with the course 
taken, in spite of all his privations: 
^'O Colvin, you don't know how 
much good I have done myself." 

Page 53 



The letter of January lo, 1880, 
famous for a detailed description 
of his daily life in San Francisco, 
contains the following conclusion, 
till now unpublished, which brings 
out the contrast between his life at 
home, unhappy as it was in various 
ways, and the routine of a penni- 
less emigrant subsisting on coffee 
and rolls: ^^The mere contempla- 
tion of a life so vile is more than 
enough for a professing Christian; 
comment could only pierce it with 
loathsome details — ." Every emi- 
grant some time has shared this 
feeling. Still, his determination to 
fight his own battle remained firm. 
When, on the morning of January 
23, 1880, Stevenson received a 
message announcing that a hun- 
dred Pounds Sterling had been 
sent by telegram, he hardly knew 
whether to be glad or sorry. Sur- 
mising it came from Colvin he 
wrote: ''Had I required money. 

Page 54 



should I not have asked it? My 
dear old man, I would take a pres- 
ent from (say) the Duke of Argyll 
and be damned glad of it." But: 
. . . *'have I not brought trouble 
enough on other people? Do not 
make me hate myself outright as a 
curse to all who love me. My 
concern is to see how I can do best 
for myself — ; I have taken my own 
way, and I mean to try my best to 
walk it. If this money is from you, 
it is not income but capital, any- 
way; and it goes into the bank, not 
to be touched but in case of sick- 
ness. It is my income, what I 
make with these two hands, that I 
care about, and that I mean, please 
God, to support myself and my 
wife." 

Mark these last words. Many 
a poet would state his case differ- 
ently; would commiserate with 
himself and complain about the 
hard, cold world. It is the com- 

Page 55 



mon course to take, and who can 
quarrel with the man that does! 
For, as he puts it almost jokingly 
three years later: ^'It is dreadful 
to be a great big man, and not be 
able to buy bread." At that time a 
hundred Pounds was offered for 
"Treasure Island;" — scarcely the 
price now paid by the collector for 
a page of manuscript in the au- 
thor's hand, signed. 

Stevenson's readiness to under- 
stand persons, and the facility 
with which he met and became an 
active participant even of the 
strangest episodes in a tropical 
fairyland, are unique in the annals 
of modern literature. A host of 
persons not otherwise interested in 
biographical details about favorite 
authors, have become quite fa- 
miliar with the daily life of the 
family at Vailima, and with the 
history of Samoa. Election rab- 

Page 56 



bles in Podunk, Indiana, or Chi- 
cago, Illinois, have been obscured, 
at least temporarily, by the issues 
of Malietoa and Mataafa. The 
Mataafa party still is strong in 
Kentucky. Everybody who knows 
his way intelligently in Philadel- 
phia also could ride from Vailima 
along the road of shifting sun and 
shadow into Apia, and stop at the 
shop of Mr. Moors — that fine Ja- 
nus of a trader, whose front eleva- 
tion shows us a merchant of the 
highest type, while, when we turn 
him about, we grasp the hand of a 
literary gentleman and a philoso- 
pher. We hardly would invite 
Chief Justice Cedarkrantz or Ba- 
ron Senflft von Pilsach to spend 
Sunday with us, but Tuimalealii- 
fagu, if he should ring our door- 
bell, would be certain of the best 
we could afford. In thought and 
intention we have offered our 
choicest cigars to old King Malie- 

Page 57 



toa and called up our best manners 
in saluting the taupou of Matautu. 
What would we not have given to 
be able to sit down to one of the 
feasts spread on the broad and 
hospitable veranda of Vailima! 
Would the road be too steep, the 
cliff's too bare, the tangle of under- 
brush and creepers too impenetra- 
ble, to prevent us from ascending 
Mount Vaea to its very top and 
lay our tribute of flowers on the 
grave of the man who stirred our 
hearts if not, indeed, stabbed our 
spirits broad awake? 

Time and chance may be here 
and now to tell a story not gener- 
ally known, of Stevenson's circle. 
One of the close friends of the 
Vailima household was the Hon. 
James Mulligan, then Consul 
General of the United States in 
Samoa, and author of the famous 
poem "In Kentucky," and an ar- 
dent collector of books. One ver- 

Page 58 



sion of the story is given by Mr. 
Moors, iFi his excellent account, 
''With Stevenson in Samoa," 1910, 
pages 5H-59. Mr. Mulligan, with- 
out objecting to the main facts, in- 
sisted on making his own point, 
and for this reason his version can- 
not be neglected. 

Jack Buckland, the original of 
Tommy fladdon in The Wrecker, 
had one of Stevenson's books 
which was autographed by the au- 
thor. 'J'his book formed exactly 
one-half of Buckland's library. 
Mulligan borrowed the inscribed 
book and could not persuade him- 
self to part with it. I le vested him- 
self with a trustee's power. Months 
after, when Jack Buckland wanted 
to give the book to a mere chance 
acquaintance, he asked its return, 
and Mulligan evaded the cjuestion. 
*4Ie" — continues Mr. Mulligan 
in a private memorandum — ''pest- 
ered the life out of me for its re- 

PaRc 59 



turn. I professed to have lost it. 
He did not believe my profession 
and became insistent. Then his 
sweetheart, a handsome and good 
half-caste girl, Lizzie Johnston, 
having become possessed of one of 
these awful autograph albums, 
took a notion that she wanted 
twelve autographs of President 
Cleveland, — and Jack agreed that 
if I would furnish the autographs, 
that he might give them to her, he 
would quit-claim the book and I 
might keep it. I gave him the 
Cleveland autographs." Then 
comes the point of the story, which 
shall remain unwritten, as it is evi- 
dent to all good Irishmen, whether 
Hibernian or American! 

It fell to Mr. Mulligan's share 
in life to announce the death of 
Mr. Stevenson in America, and he 
arose to the occasion by addressing 
to the State Department the fol- 
lowing telegram : 

Page 60 



It is with profound sorrow 
and a sincere sense of direct per- 
sonal loss that I report the sud- 
den and wholly unexpected 
death of the distinguished au- 
thor and great novelist, Robert 
Louis Stevenson, which took 
place at his residence, Vailima, 
near this place, at 8:io p.m. on 
Monday, the 3rd instant, from 
a stroke of apoplexy received 
about an hour and a half before 
while seated at his own hospit- 
able table. 

Aside from his world-wide 
reputation in literature, Mr. 
Stevenson was easily the first 
citizen of Samoa and the center 
of its social life. As is so widely 
known, he was very frail, but 
within the last two months had 
become stronger and apparently 
more vigorous than ever before. 

His hospitality was on a 
splendid scale and was equally 
constant and unfaltering. A 
British subject himself, he was 
surrounded by his family of 
American citizens, and it was 

PsLge 61 



doubtful if on the whole he was 
not in sentiment and thought as 
much American as British, 

The last manifestation of his 
elegant hospitality was, peculi- 
arly enough, a dining in cele- 
bration of our American 
Thanksgiving Day, which oc- 
curred exactly four days before 
his death, and at which, in re- 
sponse to a toast to his health, he 
spoke at length of his admira- 
tion of the American festival of 
Thanksgiving and proceeded in 
a spirit of religious sentiment to 
recount the many blessings he 
had to be grateful for. His re- 
marks were at length, full of 
genuine feeling, and almost pro- 
phetic of the end that lay so 
near. 

His remains were interred on 
the very summit of the moun- 
tain overlooking his late home 
at I o'clock yesterday, whither 
they were borne with infinite 
difficulty by the willing hands 
of a great number of Samoans, 
who recognized in his death the 

Page 62 



last champion of their people 
and country. 

Stevenson's marvelous powers of 
expression reach a climax in his 
Footnote to History. In this 
book he not only rendered great 
service to his adopted country and 
people, but drew for all time a 
picture of the mean and miserable 
management of remote tropical 
colonies by modern imperial gov- 
ernments. He reveals in the mi- 
crocosm of Samoa all the trickery 
and trumpery of faithless diplo- 
mats in contradistinction to the 
serenity, the innate honesty, of the 
common people subject to the ma- 
chinations of self-appointed mas- 
ters. God help any ^Mependency'' 
falling under the domination of 
such a combination as Cedarkrantz 
and von Pilsach! Imagine a chief 
justice of Samoa presiding over a 
court whose proceedings were 

Page 63 



stipulated to be conducted in Eng- 
lish, although he could scarcely 
speak a word of Shakespeare's 
language and had never seen a 
law-book in his life. He declined 
to open his court for a year, until 
he could pick up information and 
find out what it all meant. 

The petty meanness, the fatal of- 
ficial ugliness of it all! 

There is in existence a rare and 
curious pamphlet which serves as 
an appendix to the Footnote and to 
Mr. Moors' manly defense of ^'the 
great old man of Samoa;" — it 
bears the title The Cry of Mataafa 
for his People, and was printed in 
Auckland in 1899. It shows all 
the little traits of true honor and 
patriotism which made the old 
King so dear to Stevenson. It also 
shows that if Samoa as a center of 
native civilization and enlighten- 
ment, disappears, being replaced 
by a highly governed and admin- 

Page 64 



istered colony of Mongolian- Sa- 
moan half-breeds, the disappear- 
ance of all that bound Stevenson to 
Samoa with a friendship as deep 
as death, will have been owing to 
interference by foreign powers, 
whose efforts were worthy of bet- 
ter purposes. 

All readers of A Footnote to 
Hitory will be interested in Ma- 
taafa's appeal. As it was printed 
in a remote place and thus has be- 
come known but to a limited circle 
of readers, we reproduce it here 
from Judge Mulligan's copy. (See 
Appendix I.) 

In their ideal views of right and 
wrong; in their estimate of men 
and events, the Samoan king and 
the Scotch patrician met and sym- 
pathized. The exiled wanderer in 
the South Seas became an immi- 
grant in Samoa on the basis of that 
humanity which unites all enlight- 
ened minds. 

Page 65 



Thus Stevenson, although an 
immigrant in Samoa and a stran- 
ger, never became exiled from his 
own kind. 

The ideal immigrant in any 
country is the person who accepts 
the new surroundings, adopts the 
new conditions of thought and con- 
duct, makes the best of life as he 
finds it, enters whole-souled into 
his duties to a new form of society, 
shows faith in the affairs of his 
adopted land, and makes use of his 
racial inheritance and early ac- 
quirements to enlighten his new 
circle. If this tentative outline of 
a great problem is true, Stevenson 
was an ideal immigrant. It is an 
irregularity for anybody to leave 
the land of his birth, memories and 
native language. The temptation 
always to make comparison, is pre- 
sent at every turn. To the native 
Scot, San Francisco is as strange 

Page 66 



and wild as the South Sea Islands. 
It requires philosophy and a strong 
will to overcome the consequences 
of this irregularity, to choke down 
comparisons, to burn bridges in 
one's life no longer used, and to 
use such as are traveled to advan- 
tage. 

Charles Warren Stoddard has 
pointed out that Stevenson's ven- 
ture in the South Seas laid upon 
him — ^ Stevenson — the burden of 
proving his moral integrity. The 
tropics afford the greatest oppor- 
tunity for the requisite test. The 
tropics invite a peculiar philoso- 
phic languor, but also afford the 
opportunity for a broadened vision 
and the display of superior mer- 
its. Did Stevenson stand the test? 

He did, but not altogether in the 
way Stoddard expected. His art, 
it must be admitted, took no color 
from the gorgeous display about 
him. But he came — and went — in 

Page 67 



a manner wholly different from 
the usual foreign invasion. There 
was no kinship between him and 
"that insalubrious old marauder, 
Captain Cook," and his mildewed 
crew; he was as far removed from 
them as he was from the modern 
missionaries and the politico-pira- 
tic zelotes of the Great Powers, the 
beach-combers, the exploiters. It 
is not so much Stevenson's virtue 
that he presented us with faithful- 
ly drawn types of white as wtII as 
brown men peculiar to Oceania, or 
with the most exquisitely pencilled 
sketches of land and sea; it is 
in his stories of Scottish life and 
by his complete reversion to his 
own native type, that he met, and 
stood, the test of moral integrity. 
No wonder that Rahero could 
be written in the tropics, but 
The Master of Ballantrae, Catri- 
ona, St. Ives, Weir of Hermiston! 
And also the Vailima Prayers. 

Page 68 



These works prove, as nothing else 
proves it, that a true man's heart 
never is at rest very far from home, 
but that even at the very end of the 
world the life of the soul sinks its 
roots even deeper than before into 
the native soil. There is a Samoa, 
there is an island of rest, joy and 
sweet relaxation at the world's end 
for every one. But the ultimate 
test of a man's moral value is that 
when he grows into greatness, as 
was the case with Stevenson; and 
chiefs, kings and other good men 
crowd in to listen to his wisdom 
and to hear the music of his voice; 
and he is happy over his good for- 
tune, — that, when all this comes to 
pass, this man is restless, until 
somewhere beyond the seas, in the 
old home, the people that fostered 
him, and the old circle of friends 
of the early years, share the know- 
ledge of the victory won. 

So there is a sweet significance 

Page 69 



in the fact that forty years after 
Stevenson wrote his Song of the 
Road, with its rousing motive 
^^Over the Hills and Far Away," 
another poet, seeing the thread of 
gold in his own life, craved the 
complement to that song. On 
March i8, 1918, Mr. Charles 
Granger Blanden, of Chicago, 
wrote the following beautiful 
lines: 

You sang to me, one distant day, 
*^Over the hills and far away/^ 
A sad sweet song that still I hear, 
After how many a vanished year. 

I pray you sing once more to me. 
No song to set the spirit free. 
But one to cheer the weary heart. 
After the soul has played its 
part. 



Page 70 



Sing me a song that tells of rest, 
For love at last has found its 
nest; 
Sing me a song of happy men: 

Over the Hills and Home 
Again. 




Page 71 



APPENDIX I 
The Cry of Mataafa 



THE CRY OF MATAAFA 
On behalf of my people, whom I love 
with a great love, I beseech the Three 
Great Powers of England, Germany, and 
the United States of America to listen to 
my voice and grant my prayer. I ask and 
desire nothing for myself. My years can- 
not be many, for now I am old. The grave 
will soon enclose me, and I shall be no 
more. But the people who have loved me 
long, and love me still, will live for many 
years after I am gone. The strong men 
who have served me so bravely and faith- 
fully, the women who for my sake have 
endured many hardships and privations, and 
the children whose laughter and sport make 
the villages joyous and happy — these will 
be living when I am known no longer in 
Samoa. It is for their sakes that I raise my 
voice, and pray that the Three Great Pow- 
ers, in their generosity and kindness, will 
grant my request. 

Thrice have I been elected King of Sa- 
moa, by the free will and choice of the 
great majority of the people, and according 
to our own laws and customs. At Faleula, 

Page 75 



1 888; at Vaiala, in 1889; and at Muli- 
nu'u, in 1898, the people asked me to reign 
over them. When the people asked me on 
the last occasion to become their King, I 
thought there were none to oppose or cause 
trouble, for it seemed to me that all Samoa 
was united. I was not eager to rule, for I 
had been five years in exile from my native 
land, and I wished to live peaceably and 
quietly in Samoa for the remainder of my 
life; moreover, Kings of Samoa have ever 
been beset with dangers, difficulties and 
troubles. But I believed the people desired 
me to rule over them, and I thought that I 
could govern them in such a way that all 
Samoa would be happy, contented, and 
peaceful. But certain evil white men led a 
portion of the people astray, beguiling them 
with falsehoods and deceptive promises. 
These evil men persuaded a small minority 
of the Samoans to choose a boy as King. 
They forced him, against his will, to leave 
his school at Leulumoega, and he came to 
Apia, and lived in the houses of some of the 
white men, so that he might always be 
under their control. They desired him to 
be King, so that they might do with him as 
they pleased, for their own selfish purposes, 
and not for the good of Samoa. 

Page 76 



It has been said by some people, that be- 
fore I left Jaluit, to return to Samoa, I 
signed a written promise not to concern my- 
self with Samoan politics, and these persons 
also say that by reason of this promise I 
could not be rightfully elected King of 
Samoa. But this statement is not true. I 
did not promise to have nothing to do with 
politics in Samoa, and the writing which I 
signed does not contain anything that 
should prevent me from becoming King of 
Samoa, after the death of IVIalietoa Lau- 
pepa. 

I believed, also, and felt sure, that the 
German Government no longer objected to 
me being appointed King. And this being 
so, I cannot understand why evil and de- 
signing white men, who were not author- 
ized by the German Government, should 
make an objection which did not concern 
England or America, but only Germany. 
But the Chief Justice, being an ignorant 
man, and also not upright, listened to the 
lawyers, who spoke with many deceptive 
words, and also paid great heed to the evil 
counsels of others, and declared the boy to 
be King of Samoa, but not according to the 
laws and customs of Samoa; for such a 
thing has never been known in Samoa; 

Page 77 



that a boy should be clothed with the power 
and authority of a High Chief or King. 
It was an unrighteous judgment, and 
against the wishes of the majority of the 
Samoan people. Then my people rose up 
in their anger and indignation, driving the 
small minority, who wished the boy to be 
King, out of Apia, and establishing a Gov- 
ernment of Samoa at Mulinu'u. This 
Government was recognized by the Consuls 
of Great Britain, Germany, and the United 
States of America, in the name of the 
Three Powers, until the Powers should de- 
termine what should be done concerning the 
unrighteous decision of the Chief Justice. 
But before the Three Great Powers had 
time to consult among themselves and make 
their wishes known, the American Admiral 
commanded me to submit to the boy whom 
the Chief Justice had unlawfully declared 
to be King. He likewise ordered that the 
Government which had been established at 
Mulinu'u, and had been recognized by the 
Three Great Powers, should be over- 
thrown, and that my people should yield to 
the small party opposed to them. He also 
said that if his orders were not obeyed he 
would fire upon the people at Mulinu'u, 
who could not resist, with his great guns 

Page 78 



and small guns. These orders grieved and 
astonished the people, because they knew 
that the Great Powers had not ordered 
these things to be done, but that all these 
things were being done because of the evil 
influence of certain officials and white men. 
So my people and I left Mulinu'u and we 
went into the bush. Then the great guns 
of the American warships and the British 
warships shelled the town of Apia and the 
mountain of Vaea, and sent armed men 
ashore to hold the town. After this there 
was much fighting, and many of my people 
were killed and wounded by the guns 
which fire many bullets, like the drops of 
rain in a heavy shower. Some of the white 
officers and men were slain also, and for 
this I was very sorrowful, for I desired not 
that any should be killed. Many times 
when the w^hite soldiers were marching 
along, my people were on each side of them, 
unseen, and could have killed many of 
them, but they let them pass unharmed. 
Then the British warships proceeded up 
and down the coasts of Upolu and Savaii, 
shelling many towns and villages, none ,of 
which could defend themselves, for the 
people in them had no thought of fighting, 
being nearly all old men, women, children, 

Page 79 



and pastors. These were compelled to seek 
refuge in the bush and in the churches ; but 
even these sacred buildings were not safe, 
some of them being pierced by shells and 
bullets, and there was great trouble and 
fear amongst the people. Then white of- 
ficers came ashore in small steamers (steam 
launches) and boats, landing Samoan war- 
riors, even the British Consul being with 
the officers, and carrying a sword and re- 
volver. The white officers commanded the 
Samoans to burn down the houses in the 
towns and villages, and they did so, leaving 
only the pastors' houses unharmed. Many 
things were burned in the houses. They 
likewise destroyed many plantations, and 
they also destroyed many very large and 
valuable boats, the building of which had 
cost many thousands of dollars. 

In consequence of the destruction of their 
houses, and the sacking of their towns and 
villages, the old men, the women and the 
children w^ere compelled to take shelter in 
the bush, residing in poor huts, which v^^ere 
not weather-proof, and were in unhealthy 
situations. They were also compelled to 
subsist on unwholesome and unsuitable 
food. In consequence of these things, many 
of these old men, women, and children have 

Page 80 



sickened and died, causing great sorrow and 
distress in almost every town and village. 
Even now the people are living in tempo- 
rary houses hastily erected in the towns and 
villages, and subject to great discomfort. I 
humbly implore the Great Powers to regard 
with compassion my people in their trouble 
and distress. They have obeyed the High 
Commissioners whom the Great Powers 
have sent to Samoa. They have surrend- 
ered their guns, they have faithfully com- 
plied with all that the High Commissioners 
required of them, and they are resolved to 
obey the Provisional Government establish- 
ed by the Commissioners before they left 
Samoa. 

Though my people are subject to fre- 
quent insult and ill-treatment from the 
small party who were opposed to them — 
these things being done in order to provoke 
them to renewed strife — they desire to live 
at peace with all Samoa. If the bad influ- 
ence of a few evil-minded white people 
were stopped, by these men being removed 
from the country, there would no longer be 
any trouble, for then all Samoa would be 
at peace. I rejoice, and my people are glad, 
at the prospect of a new and stable Govern- 
ment for Samoa. If the Great Powers will 

Page 81 



send good men to take charge of the Gov- 
ernment and not those who care only for 
the money they receive, Samoa will become 
peaceful, happy, and prosperous. I pray to 
God that this may be so, for I love my 
country and my people greatly. 

But now I again beseech the Great Pow- 
ers, out of their abundant wealth, to grant 
my people some compensation for the great 
loss and damage inflicted upon them. To 
His Majesty the German Emperor I ap- 
peal, in great confidence and trust, for dur- 
ing the trials and troubles of this year he 
and his Government have been true and 
steadfast friends of my people and myself, 
and this w^e shall ever remember with deep 
and abiding gratitude. To President Mc- 
Kinley and the Government of the United 
States of America I appeal, for that great 
country has alwaj^s been friendly to Samoa, 
and has, in past years, assisted and strength- 
ened us in times of peril and tribulation. 
To Her Majesty Queen Victoria and the 
Government of Great Britain I appeal, for 
all the world knows the Queen to be good, 
kind, and humane, and the British Govern- 
ment has always been ready to succour the 
needy and help the weak and distressed in 
all countries. To the great peoples of 

Page 82 



Germany, America, and England I appeal, 
and beseech them to make their voices 
heard in our behalf, and assist my people in 
their cause. 

The smile of God brightens the lives of 
those who assist the injured and the wrong- 
ed, and the blessings of those whom they 
relieve and assist will continually follow 
them. 

(Signed) o /. Mataafa 
Amaile, Upolu, Samoa, 

1 6th August, 1899 




Page 83 



APPENDIX II 

Three Poems in Memory of 
R. L. S. 

By 

Frederic Smith 

To travel happily is a better thing than 
to arrive. — R. L. S. 



A PARAPHRASE 
Better the pilgrim's staff, the cheerful song, 
The distant hills to beckon us along, 
A free highway and the wide sky above, 
The foot to travel and the heart to love, 
Youth's eager fancies and the morning light. 
Than the high festival of crowning night. 

So long our vision shines, our hopes be- 
friend, 
Better the journey than the journey's end. 
The cozy resting place that shines ahead 
Is not so blessed as the steps we tread. 
Better a mountain streamlet in the sun 
Than a still pool with all our journeys 

done. 
Better the toil and stress though spent in 

vain. 
Than the brief joys we labour to obtain. 
The flowers we stop to gather by the way 
Before our journey's end are thrown away. 
But all the joy of search and sight is ours, 
That shall go with us though we lose the 

flowers. 
Thrice happy he who learns the truth I tell, 
He shall arrive at last, and all be well. 
(Unpublished.) 

Page 87 



TO R. L. S. 
Dear Friend, all love, that love unanswered 
may, 
I gave to thee — my spirit leapt to thine. 
Lured by the spell of many a magic line 
I joined thy fellowship, and sailed away 
To glowing isles, where golden treasures 
lay. 
With thee, all night, I lay among the 

pine, 
'Mid dews and perfume in the fresh 
starshine. 
Till darkness moved and thrilled with com- 
ing day. 

And now thou liest lone on Vaea's height, 

The visions on thine eyes we may not 

know. 

I think of thee, awake, with keen delight. 

Hearing the forests wave, the grasses 

grow. 
The rush of spectral breakers far below. 
Through all the starry splendor of the 
night. 

From A Chest of Viols, 1896. 



Page 88 



R. L. S. 
On Reading "Travels With A Don- 
key." 
How sweet the way where we poor mortals 
stray 
When, with enlightened eyes, unveiled 

we see 
Earth's wondrous beauty and her mys- 
tery! 
Nature revealed, a living thing alway. 
Alert in listening night or bountiful day 
Moves to our mood with finest sympathy. 
With watchful service sets our spirit free ; 
Sings in our joy or wipes our tears away. 

Surely the fault is ours, so long we rest 

Content with darkened vision at the gate, 
When we might stand within, in reverence 
drest, 
With sense refined, with subtle joy elate. 
In that hushed portal where such won- 
ders wait. 
As they may see whom God has fitly blest. 
(Unpublished.) 



Page 89 



APPENDIX III 

Facsimile 

OF 

Letter in Latin 



Mr. Payson S. Wild has been kind 
enough to transliterate the Latin portion of 
this letter and to elucidate its formal diffi- 
culties. The following are Mr. Wild's 
comments : 

Brebisissimus. Doubtless coined from 
the French brebis, a sheep. The follow- 
ing sentence carries out the figure. 

Principessa. Italian form for princess. 

Fiores. As it appears in the text this 
word is susceptible of two other readings, 
namely, flans, and flares; but neither of 
these can possibly be construed. Further- 
more Stevenson's classical training was not 
carried far, as we know, and so we must 
expect to find him using common and well 
known words in a **stunt" of this kind. 
Fiores is a common and well known word, 
whereas the others are not. The probable 
meaning of the sentence, which is somewhat 
blind, is this: "Yesterday, off in the dark 
on his bed, he is reported to have wept co- 
piously becaues the Princess forbade him, 
Juno fashion, ever again to present her with 
flowers." Little can be said for the latin- 
ity of this sentence. 

More. Mare is the more obvious read- 
ing, but fails utterly in meaning. 

Deganibolatus sum. This needs no oth- 
er comment than the author's own. 

P. S. W. 

Page 93 






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